"Nothing particular the matter--only something lost as usual, Mrs. Watts," said the man in private dress, politely. "Where's Mattie to-night?" "There she is. She's been in all the evening with a bad throat." "Poor girl--throats _is_ bad at this time of the year." The speaker looked at the lad at his side, after giving the first turn backward to the rug. "Is this the girl?" The policeman took the candle from the table, and held the light close to the girl's face--white, pinched, and haggard, with black eyes full of horror. "Don't say it's me, please," she gasped, in a low voice; "I'm the gal that sings in Suffolk Street on a Saturday night, and they gives wittles to at Wesden's. It isn't me." Mattie had intended to brave it out at first, to have remained stolid, sullen, and defiant, after the manners of her class; but she felt ill and nervous, and the shadow of the prison-house loomed before her and made her heart sink. Prison was a comfortable place in its way, but she had never taken to it--one turn at it had been enough for her. If it had been a policeman, or old Wesden, or anybody but this boy three years her senior in age, many years her junior in knowledge of the world, she would have been phlegmatic to the last; but this boy had been kind to her twice in life--once on Christmas-eve, and once on a Saturday night before that, and she gave way somewhat, partly from her new and unaccountable weakness, partly because it was not a very stern face that looked down into hers. "That's her, sure enough--eh, young gentleman?" remarked the police officer in private clothes. There was another pause--the girl's face blanched still more, and the look in her eyes became even more intense and eager; the boy glanced over his shoulder at the servants of the law. "No--this isn't the girl. Oh! no." "Are you quite certain? Stand up, Mattie." Mattie turned out of her rug and stood up, erect and motionless, with her hands to her side, and her sharp black eyes still on Master Hinchford. "Oh! no, policeman. Ever so much taller!" "Then we're on the wrong scent it seems, and you'd better go home and leave it to us. Good night, Mrs. Watts." "Good night," was the muttered response. Policeman, detective, and Master Hinchford went down the stairs to the court, out of the court into Kent Street, black and noisome--a turgid current, that wore only a semblance of stillness at hours more late than that. "We'll let you know in the morning if there's any clue," said the detective. "Jem," to the policeman, "see this lad out of Kent Street." "All right. I think I'd try old Simes for the brooch." "I'll drop on him presently. Good night, Jem." "Good night."